It comes all at once, a flood of knowing; a blurring of the vision, feeling suddenly crowded with someone else's thoughts and feelings, but separate from them, inside of it maybe, like being a small ghost haunting a longer body. The body is disorienting; looking down, one expects one's legs to be longer, to be further from the ground, and having two perspectives at the same time is overwhelming. It fades fast, though, until there's only a minor presence. If minds could hold hands...
Wolfgang feels like a rabbit; a constant thread of every kind of anxiety there is, beating fast like the heart of some small prey animal. The fear of other people is first and foremost, a terrible swallowing fear of judgment and ridicule and a desperate need to please other people. There's a sadness there, too, and a disconnect from the body, a pervading wrongness with it. But wonder, too, and joy, the wild joy of standing at the edge of a very tall cliff and knowing you can jump or not. You can do anything you want. There is no such thing as a closed door.
When his vision clears and he can see again and he looks up, it's like it's the first time, the first time ever. The sounds are all for the first time too, his own breathing, his heart beating; smells too, the strange gunpowdery, burnt charcoal smell of the moon. There's awe. It's like looking into the face of God.